


Karneval: Sidefics

by Fweeble



Series: Karneval AU [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Sweet and Schmoopy, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fweeble/pseuds/Fweeble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Additional Karneval fics, mostly prompts, that don't fit into the main story line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More Than a Teenage Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based off Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream". For my darling waifu's birthday, her second pressie. I love you, sweetie!

As in love as Damian is with his husband, it often disconcerts him just how easily Tim can make him degenerate into an embarrassed, fumbling teen. Over twenty years into their relationship and there are times when he looks at Tim and realizes he is still the same nervous thirteen year old who struggled to ask his adopted brother out on a date.

Tim seems to delight in the various ways he can make Damian’s heart race, often going to ridiculous and embarrassing lengths to make Damian flush. It doesn’t take much for Tim to look as if he has just stepped out of a teenage wet dream, not with his long, lean muscles and the confident little smirk that tugs at his lips. All he has to do is cant his hips in just the right way, tilt his head and grin, and Damian is putty in his beloved’s shrewd, talented hands.   
  
Even at forty-five the man is as gorgeous as he was when Damian first set eyes on him. Damian can still remember the way his heart beat, the way the blood roared in his ears, how dry his mouth was the first time he had the man he loved splayed out beneath him, chest heaving and sweaty, eyes dark and eyelashes fluttering. There were no regrets that night, just love and a silent promise of eternity.

Every look, every laugh, every whispering touch —Damian’s heart never fails to stutter, to trip, to stop. It is simple, easy, to close his eyes and remember all their firsts, to drown in the emotions that the man evokes in him. 

With Tim, it doesn’t matter if he’s twenty or forty or seventy; it is as if he is always a thirteen year old so incredibly smitten and heads over heels in love with a gorgeous, brilliant, unattainable man who is, despite everything, his. So very his. His to love, his to treasure, his to worship.

Tim, devious, beautiful Tim, delights in the rush of blood and the deep flush that overtakes him when his love paints on his jeans and leans over kitchen counters to reach mugs and bowls hidden away in cupboards. His eyes sparkle when he straddles an embarrassed Damian and whispers lewd words into his ears, nipping and licking at the skin he finds, reducing the younger man to grunts and mumbles, until all Damian can remember is the rush of hormones and the teen-addled brains of their youth.

No matter how many years pass, no matter how old they are, Tim will always be able to arouse these feelings in Damian, the confused, desperate passion and never-ending adoration.

That is why, when the man sidles up to him and runs a hand down his leg and huskily suggests a dance in the middle of their kitchen, their kids doing their homework in their rooms as they cook dinner, Damian can only reply with,

“Of course. Forever.”

Because this is what he had always wanted, what he had yearned for all those years ago when, flushed and cheeks hurting, he had asked Tim to marry him. Because with Tim, life is a never-ending teenage dream. He will never look back, never stop and wonder, but run forward with the fingers of his beloved entwined with his, for eternity and longer.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad, that’s embarrassing!”

  
“That’s disgusting, in the kitchen!?”  
  


Tim smiles into his chest and Damian can’t help but marvel in how perfect his world is, how his heart swells at the thought of Tim and his family.

Tim is more than Damian’s teenage dream, he is Damian’s love. His life is more than a teenage fantasy; it’s the dream of a lifetime.

“Your daddies are busy, sweeties. We’ll call you when dinner’s done,” Tim coos as he wraps his arms around Damian’s waist and coaxes the other man to sway with him. “I promise we won’t let anything burn this time.”


	2. Domesticity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my darling hubby, stinajy, who requested more Karneval AU. I love yooooou. <3

Married life isn’t quite more of the same.

Tim had only moved in two months before the wedding, after tidying loose ends in München. It was a mad scramble to arrange the wedding after Tim’s arrival in Gotham: Who to invite? Public or private? Both? Superhero community invited or not? What will the menu be, who would cater –Alfred can’t handle that many people. The seating arrangement was a headache that kept Tim in the study for days, away from their bed and out of Damian’s reach.

In short, the months before the wedding was chaos that Damian would prefer not to dwell on. 

So, really, there isn’t much “life before marriage” to compare to. It generally consisted of twenty hour flights across an ocean, music, bright colors, and breakfast in bed. 

In all honesty, Damian can’t really compare the ‘before’ and ‘after’.

They’re adults, working men —they live in a nice apartment within reasonable driving distance of the manor, they pay taxes –and it seems that they don’t see each other as often as they would like. The days are long and trying, the nights exhausting, and by the time they’re both in the apartment for more than a quick bite to eat, they’re heading for the shower. Most nights end with both of them boneless in bed.

It’s not all bad –being able to fall asleep next to his beloved, to hold Tim in his arms every night, to wake up to warm skin bathed in warm sunlight; it is all Damian had ever wanted for ten years.

But the nights they have free are the nights Damian realizes just how draining life in Gotham is to Tim. The other man has gotten used to Europe, to the German companies, the efficiency and dedication, and the clear, smog-free skies, the forests. 

Tim comes home with migraines, pinched expressions, irritation a second skin. All Damian can do on those precious nights when the night is just theirs –those nights that are so few, so far in between, those nights he doesn’t have to share his husband with Gotham and its citizens, when Tim is his, just his until the sun rises –is rub his beloved’s feet.

 

There are times when Tim looks up from the television, as if reading Damian’s mind, and relaxes just a bit further into the other man’s embrace, ear pillowed on Damian’s chest. I love this, Tim always says, I love being able to hear your heart.

‘I’m happy.’ 

‘I’m not as miserable as you think I am.’

‘I’m here because you are.’

‘I love you.’

 

‘I love you too’ –how, exactly, does he express such a sentiment? Not with roses and a box with chocolate, not with a guitar and words crafted by a stranger.

So Damian skips lunch.

Every afternoon, he takes two hours and drives to the manor, and tries to learn to cook under Alfred’s careful tutelage. He works over-time, comes home fulfilled and accomplished because his plan is just the smallest step closer to completion. Every failed smoked salmon, every successful eggs benedict, is a small triumph. 

He spends the first few afternoons alternatively burning (“Congratulations, sir, you have made a successful charcoal briquette. Shall we attempt for something edible this time?”) or under cooking everything. He nearly lops off his thumb while chopping vegetables and earns himself a scar, a medal of valor. 

Cooking, he learns, is war disguised as food preparation.

—

Sometimes Tim wonders why he continues to work in Wayne Industries.

He hated it when he was seventeen, he hated it while he was in Germany, and he still hates it at thirty and living in Gotham. He hates the fake smiles, the dull, vapid gazes during meetings that last lifetimes. The yes men and the idiots who can’t tell a supply curve from a demand curve; people with posh degrees from Ivy League schools and nothing between their ears. The business world doesn’t appeal to him, and if he was honest, he’d prefer working with the scientists in the R&D division. 

Besides, he wouldn’t have to wear a tie. 

It’s a relief to be home. They don’t have patrol tonight, and, for the nth time, Tim has to be grateful for the staggered shifts they’re now on. It’s nice to have nights off, time to spend with the husband he crossed continents for but never seems to manage to corner when they actually have the energy to do anything but laze about on the couch with the TV on.

Chinese or Indian? Because Tim doesn’t want to touch the stove and he had spent the entire day with expensive Italian leather shoes pinching his toes (it was a gift and Tim doesn’t have the heart to throw it out, torture device or not). Damian is probably just as cross after dealing with corporate executives that see him as nothing but a lap dog to be trained for the future.

Maybe Indian, I’m sure the day –Is that food I smell?

There is a salmon sizzling in a pan and the soft hum of the oven when he enters the kitchen, loosening the death grip called a tie. 

“Everything smells amazing,” Tim croons when he reaches Damian. “You look delicious in the apron.”

Tim can’t resist twining his fingers around the apron strings, the wedding gift Steph gave them. He loves the ugly pink plaid and stark white letters, the way it’s just shy of being too small for Damian. He admires the way it frames the other man, tight, stretched across a broad chest, because, he knows. This is for him.

And he can’t help but smile because he has a secret that he never plans on telling his husband. Damian may think his tan hides all signs of his embarrassment, but it fails to hide one thing.

Tim kisses the burning tip of Damian’s ear, fingers abandoning the apron strings so his arms can encircle a familiar waist.

“Thank you.”

He loves the stubborn look of frustration that crosses his husband’s face, the petulant mutters of “damn cook book lied” and “more than two hours…”

“I’ll take over the vegetables, sweetie. You check on the salmon.”


End file.
